Fellowship of the Orb: Review of Guardians of the Galaxy

If you like Marvel films you’ll like Guardians of the Galaxy. You may like it even more if you don’t like everything Marvel has done. I liked it. It was smart and sweet and nostalgic, with some great performances from the cast, plus with added bonus surprise cameos and shout outs for long-term comic readers. It was like ET in reverse. Mostly though, as others have mentioned, it was funny. But, like I say, if you like these kind of films you may have all ready seen it and if you haven’t you will and you probably won’t see it on my say so anyway, cos who the hell am I? Right?

So why write this? This is about what it made me think and feel. We like these kind of films to be a bit of escapist dramatic comedic nonsense (in a very serious big business Hollywood way). The film is full of beautiful people and good laughs and quite a bit of emotion.

Yet, I didn’t quite manage to get to that escapism. Some aspects of the plot and some of the speeches brought me crashing back right into the here and now. Or over there and now. I don’t know if current geo-political events are making me more sensitive or whether now is no time for light-hearted japes in the face of unrelenting animosity.

It was about aspects of the plot. One party was bent on the total annihilation of apparent enemies for reasons not fully explored, but was clearly motivation enough. There was the usual political and military response which was a bit Air Force One (see what I did there), in terms of noble leaders meeting unremitting vengeance.

In the middle of this, a disparate bunch of ne’er-do-well professional thieves, assassins and bounty hunters get good lines, humour and action. They crew up much like in Star Wars and Firefly and are made a group through their shared survival and awareness of each other’s various experiences of horribleness – including murder, kidnapping and genetic experimentation. Happy times.

Genetically modified and tortured steam punk cats for a possible spin off.  You know it.

Genetically modified and tortured steam punk cats for a possible time travelling spin-off.
You know it.

My thoughts are not about this bunch of reluctant but thrilling heroic types. I got their backs. They’re cool. I mean really cool.

No, my thoughts are about the plot. I was somehow stuck, in this middle of this alien feel good high stakes action drama comedy, thinking about how violence and revenge begets violence and revenge. Ronan the Trouble Maker (Accuser but whatevs) wants to destroy the galaxy in a fundamentalist push that even has his Emperor Palpatine dad figure Thanos thinking it’s a bridge too far.

Obviously, motivation needs to be big for the reluctant heroes to bother to do their thing, but for me, such massive destruction seems too indiscriminate for Ronan: Who do we hate? Everybody. What we gonna do? Kill Everyone.

I found my self thinking about what drives someone to contemplate genocide. Why kill everyone if one specific group has somehow perhaps harmed or wronged you? Why use an ultimate weapon when you can wield power merely with the threat of it?

During this, of course, I was cheering for the Heroes to save the day. They had to for the galaxy to continue to exist. But I found I wanted to understand Ronan et al more.

And, for all the aliens and genetically modified raccoons, it felt really personal. It was all too human, basically, what with singularly driven Kree fanatics verses casual Xandar citizens, military and political leadership who are mostly uncomprehending of the danger they’re in. This, in a universe where the mostly American-accented troops and merchant-spaceship galactic criminals band together to defend justice and their alien way of life, while the Bad Guys are mocked and ultimately defeated, without us really understanding their motivations.

If all this rings a bell in the here and now, then you’re not alone.

I guess I don’t want good versus bad so very much because real life is rarely that way. Just as Peter Quill’s existence is recognition that to do good you don’t need to be All Good All the Time, so too, you don’t need to be All Bad, All the Time to do bad.

Maybe I’m asking too much of a film based on a comic strip, where visually and viscerally characters are demarcated as one thing or the other. But this is where film can express so much more. I think this is why there are so many fans of Loki in the Avengers etc. Tragic hero of his own story, Loki, (in his mind) is forced into playing the villain to win his father’s affection or respect or power, but it is never enough. We don’t want Loki to win, but man, the feels.

So much thinking. This is exactly what I didn’t need from Guardians of the Galaxy. On all sides throughout history there are those who do and witness terrible things for both noble and really messed up motivations. Do we side with the Spartans or the Persians? The Crusaders or the Saracens, Gauls or Romans? Add any current day conflict here:

<insert imagined conflict>

What I’m fumbling towards is the need for our storytelling in whatever form, be it comic or film or novel, to demonstrate that it is ok for characters to be nuanced and for the world they live in to be complicated. Ronan would have been all the more menacing and mixed up for demonstrating a closer devotion to his daughter(s), for instance. If there was any sympathy that could have been elicited from the audience, it would’ve heightened the sense of peril.

In the end, Ronan could’ve been Sauron for all we knew, the god of grasping and despicable malice at large in the world…destroyed by a precious small glowy thing that difficult to get rid of. Yet Ronan is a person. As an individual I need him to be less Sauron-like and more complicated – like a physically stronger, more fanatical and corrupted Saruman.

So um yeah, Guardians feels like Fellowship of the Orb a bit, but with comedy, and space ships. Not the conclusion I thought I would reach with this.

But there you go.

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Anti-Advice for Writers

If you are writing or thinking about writing, or reading about thinking about starting to write you will, with little trouble, come across a terrifyingly huge amount of advice. It comes in the form of: books, blogs, well-meaning friends, videos, hash-tagged conversations, mime performances, professional organisations and their magazines, software, spam invitations to pay for your own publishing, classes and lessons and courses, videos, strangers who offer up uninvited nuggets of truthiness the moment you mention the w word, author lectures, and worried phone conversations with relatives.

All of them have something to tell you about writing: how to do it right, what to write about, how quill is better than typewriters, while laptops are impossible cos Internet, what won’t sell, why they gave up or never started, and how everything ever has already been written.

So much to say about writing.

Don’t try to take too much of it in.

At least not all at once, you’ll implode and the universe will collapse into some kind of singularity. So I’ve heard. Maybe.

Too much  advice and no writing makes Bec a cranky writer.

Too much advice and no writing makes Bec a cranky writer.

So here’s my anti-advice.

-  You don’t have to tell anyone you are writing.

- You don’t need to tell anyone whether you have been published or not.

- You’re not obligated to tell your story to anyone before or while you write the story. Or even after. Some writers believe it takes power from your writing, while others believe people will steal your idea.

- If you don’t want to talk about writing, smile politely and change the topic. Pointing at something and running away might work.

- You don’t need to take or accept anyone else’s advice, unless you want to, or for reasons, must. (Like contractual reasons – just accept editors know how to use apostrophes).

- Don’t let the nay sayers get you down.  You don’t need to own the failure or shortfalls of others. You make (and proudly display) your own mistakes:) Or not.

- You make and you own your successes. Don’t let others take them from you either. Stealing  your joy should be a crime.

- Write what you want to write. Limiting your writing to ‘what you know’ is bs. Cos how many crime novels are written by criminals – not all of them? How many hours did Barbara Cartland put into working out what would work, ahem, romantically?  Did George Lucas or Steven Moffat go into space? Did JRR Tolkien meet Elves and Dragons? Did George RR Martin go back in time to pick up tips on European politics, add some Dire Wolves and that double R thing in a canny marketing move? No. What they did was (and what all authors continue to do is) invent places and times and settings while studying a lot of historical, literary and technical texts to lend consistency to their worlds (give or take a Jar Jar Binks or two).

- It’s ok to write. Really. Go on. I’ve said this before but what you bring is not your idea (because unique ideas are few and far between in this old world). No. What you bring is you. You and your writing voice are unique. Bring. Them.

- It’s ok to fail.

- It’s ok to fail and still not tell anyone.

- It’s ok to be wildly successful and still not discuss it.

- It’s ok to be semi-successful and published but still have a day job because writing doesn’t pay like it once did. And it’s still ok to not discuss it at the water cooler if you don’t want to.

- It’s ok to completely do the opposite of everything I’ve ever done, because I’m not exactly swimming in publishing contracts, while promoting myself as brand….like others seem to have mastered since forever…yet.



- Basically, it’s ok.


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Messages in the music

Being a person in the world, I have noticed, of late, that it isn’t going well. The world, that is. Drought, ice melting, reefs dying, war, famine, poverty, burning this, flooding that, rampant terrible disease things, pillaging hordes of other things, like politicians and media barons, kids being shelled, torture, censorship, kidnapping, rape memes, repression, murder, reporters being jailed for describing what’s happening. Elephants crying, a baby wailing. Stray dog howling. The screech of brakes and lamp lights blinking – seems my train of thought morphed into:


Seems there’s a song for every feeling.

Anyway, it’s a wonder the earth is still here at all.

Some days. It. Is. All. Too. Much.

So how or why do I continue to do what I do? Isn’t pointless in the face of so much horror? Doesn’t amount to a hill of beans, this tinkering with words to tell stories and this blog?

Well yes. But. That’s what humans do. In the face of horror they keep at whatever gives life meaning. Thus, I have certain skills. They won’t cure cancer or calculate Pi. But, if I can keep doing what I’m reasonably good at, perhaps this doing demonstrates to someone, anyone, that people can do what they are good at, and find some satisfaction in it. This is important, because to some, even this seems impossible and there are precious few people in the world with the opportunity to find what they are good at, and attempt to practice it.

Also, while many people think the world is full of suffering and woe and make it woeful and full of suffering for everyone else, I don’t want to be that kind of person.

But no matter. This is what I have and I’ll keep sponsoring Freedom the former bile farm Moon Bear here, arguing with and un-friending small-minded ignorant racists on social media there.

It’s an up hill battle some days.

But I will keep writing. Because writing is subversive. And if I’m anything I’m a contrarian: I couldn’t read, now I’m a writer. It demonstrates in the best way I know how that I am working on who I want to be and I am free to do so. And if I can maybe we all can.

So stuff Big Brother. I’m lucky. I can protest, argue with racists and sexists, sign petitions, vote and express opinions. If only we could all, (to misquote MC Hammer) much like the Addams family, write what we wanna write, do what we wanna do, say what we wanna say, live how we wanna live, play how we wanna play and most of all….dance how we wanna dance.

We can, too, look forward to the good things. Like I don’t know, the next Australian federal election or new episodes of Doctor Who.

But importantly, as the Mod Father says in another song, we should stop apologising for the things we’ve never done, cause time is short and life is cruel. But it’s up to us to change

And we can.


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Some thoughts on American Gods: a review

Since completing my studies I’ve got a lil bit more time for recreational reading. Thus, I’ve made a start on my precarious pile of unread novels. It’s largish as there are several handy places to pick up second-hand books near where I live. A while back I started on Cloud Atlas but couldn’t get into it. Couldn’t see where it was going. Also the book had a page missing so it’s gone bye-bye. After that I made a start on The Angel’s Game by Carlos Ruiz Zafón – because I really liked The Shadow of the Wind - man that book was intensity in ten cities. This one I will go back to, but not quite yet. No, from my pile of stuff I selected Neil Gaiman’s American Gods.

It was good. I liked it, yet I don’t love it. I liked the conceit (which was Douglas Adams’ idea down to the Norse gods), even if the main character Shadow was a bit stupid. He really did feel like an empty vessel – a thing that has events happen to it and around it, except every now and then his passing remarks turned out to be Important Plot Indicators. Some were subtle, but other plot indicators were a bit twee. Loved that it featured pasties. Made me want a good Cornish pasty and I think (or guess really) that he captured Middle America reasonably well – that and the cold. I liked the intermission type chapters – they seemed more concrete. It felt a tiny bit like China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station, not thematically so very much, except in terms of quests and sacrifices, and not really with the language, but just now and again there was an echo of something.

American Gods

American Gods

But what was with all the peeing? Seriously, the amount of times the story had to describe Shadow or anyone else peeing was beyond all need. I geddit, people need to pee, but unless it’s of epic import to the plot fewer instances would’ve sufficed. Really. I’m not a prude, it’s just elaborate descriptions of toileting do not a novel make. What gives Neil, bladder infection? Freudian something or was it raining a lot that year?

Anyway aside from what seemed to be an intense focus on waterworks it’s essentially a coming of age tragic love triangle Harlequin romance gone bad redemption travel crime who dunnit flim flam finding my family and place in the world supernatural saga.

The bit I loved most was Sam’s ‘what I believe speech’. But even more interesting is contemplating the kind of gods that would inhabit America now because the ones he described were a bit, well, lame. Actually, they were the embodiment of popular stereotypes, rather than gods. So these days, next to Media there would be a less well polished but more biting and multi-voiced Social Media. There would be the modern gods of Anonymous, Gluten Intolerance, Occupy Movement, YouTube, Truthers, Paleo Diets, The Tea Party, Hipsters, Anti-Vaxers, Podcasting, Sexting, Hashtag and Quinoa…maybe. I reckon an Anonymous God would look the part because of the ready made image.

The novel’s ‘tech god’ is not great. And others more qualified than I have pointed to the problematic statements made by certain characters about Native American spirituality and other depictions of the gods.

I read his preferred version, which is apparently longer and the story is redolent of its time set as it is, in a mature America at the start of a new century. I think if it was written now it would have a different feel, but I got a sense of a rotten core in the US – all those abandoned towns, factories, farms and homes – that does seem topical given the GFC. So too was the taint of a deeper rottenness in those places that seem to be flourishing.

It’s an American version of Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul, but strangely felt just as dated – like it was in the 1980s. Yet, it’s more like an American Heart of Darkness meets The Great Gatsby if Gatsby was an ex-con instead of an ex-soldier, who worked for a sneaky and corrupt old god, rather than a bootlegger. All this set in an America where Gatsby was in love with cheater Laura as golf cheater Jordan as the forces behind and above and below are made accessible, and just a lil bit shabby and uncanny.

Anyway, it’s being made into a TV series now and there will be plenty of issues to consider before it returns to everyone’s consciousness so I’m definitely glad I’ve read it before seeing it.

Other books on the magical pile to read (and therefore admit that I have not yet read):

  • The Orchard – Drusilla Modjeska
  • Indigo – Marina Warner
  • One Hundred Years of Solitude – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
  • Love in the Time of Cholera – Gabriel Garcia Marquez
  • The Pale King – David Foster Wallace
  • The Sea, The Sea – Iris Murdoch
  • Being Dead – Jim Crace
  • Iron Council – China Mieville
  • The Carpet Wars – Christopher Kremmer
  • Remembrance of Things Past – Marcel Proust (sigh – big project).
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On Being a Writer and a Reader

Been working on the thesis and it’s nearing completion. I am both hopeful of and dreading the outcome.

What it is forcing me to be is to be a writer and a reader.

Mostly you’ll say this is easy, writers and readers share things in common, like language, and perhaps a love of and ability to speculate about the world created: look up ‘fandom,’ ‘OTP’ and  ‘ship’ anywhere on Tumblr, Reddit or Pintrest (for starters) if you don’t believe me.

However, the experience of creating a world and the experience of reading it are different. As a writer there are decisions to make, ideas that come and go, directions to take, challenges to overcome, spelling to fix, names to be selected, discarded and selected again, voice to be adjusted and tone and perspective to get right. There are pleasures: in resolving a transition, in making dialogue sound right, or taking something tiny and making it a crucial plot point. All these things are satisfying. Then there is the relief of getting the thing finished (or as finished as it can be). These trials and experiences are unique to the creator, who is mostly trying to figure this out alone.

The frustrations are numerous: failing to translate the imagination into the written word, having no one understand what you are doing, even if others have read a draft or got bored at you complaining about how a character doesn’t work. Having the time to dedicate to it, others calling you lazy when you’re dreaming about how to fix that problematic bit. And the drafting and drafting and still finding mistakes and logic flaws. The many lost ideas, or finding ideas only to realise they are really dumb or obvious. Then there’s being distracted by the ENTIRE WORLD, which seems dedicated to the prevention of writing.

After those problems, come all the questions: will anyone read it, will anyone read it and like it, will anyone read it, like and pay for it? Was it worth it? Was it worth it even it’s never published because I learned something? What the hell did I learn? Why did I bother?

As a reader, normally the stories I read allow me to immerse myself in a world. I’m not concerned about the things the writer worries about, I’m interested in the characters and being immersed in a world and story. But I have to read this world I’ve created in my head like a critic would. Be theoretical and objective. Because exegesis.

If you’re not a writer, you may not be aware, like I wasn’t really, that the author of your favourite book didn’t have the same experience or to share the same wonder that you did as a reader. They can’t. They may love their story and the world they created, but they see the work they put in, the mistakes uncorrected, the tears and the flaws. And if it’s traditionally published what they may see is a title they didn’t pick and the cover they had little say in.

In the end, your vision and understanding of the book and their vision and understanding for the story they wanted to tell and got as close as they could to telling, are different. This is ok. No one is right (or write) or wrong. It’s inter-textuality – everything you bring to the book you read informs the impression you have. Just as a lot of what I am is infused in the story. It means that every story is different, even when we read the same thing.

It’s kinda why I don’t often seek out author opinions about their own books. Sometimes they’re interesting, but I don’t need them. What I appreciate are their thoughts on writing craft, or sometimes on current affairs, or publishing. I can interpret the book for myself. And now I’m asking of myself what I don’t ask of others – my interpretation of this story.

This is the weird thing about a creative writing thesis. Not so much the story but the essay, which is the defence of the creative piece that is a response to a question. I have to think about all the choices I made as a writer and justify them, while recognising there are things I can’t see. All this while engaging in theory and philosophy and comparison. It’s odd being creator and my own critic.

It’s deliberate too, what I choose to discuss in the exegesis and what I skate around. Or at least it is mostly deliberate and then it gets psychological. Excavate the story, excavate me too maybe? Why can’t the story be all that needs to be said about itself? It’s never enough is it? It’s why there are art critics and author book tours and literature tutorials. We read we discuss, we dissect, we delineate, we distil. I get distracted.

No matter how ‘innovative’ (shudder) the story is, the exegesis is formulaic. It follows a pattern and must fulfil certain criteria. So no matter how much I want to put the exegesis in the story and the story in the exegesis, it’s not really the done thing.

The academy considers creating and critiquing separate. And they do come from different places and inform each other. But I want to throw clay at the canvas and generally mix it up more. I suppose I’ve tried to be all Philosophically Deleuzean about it – added in the layers in the story. But the success is not judged by me.

I guess we’ll see. C’est la vie.

This Being Two French Philosophers

This Being Two French Philosophers

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Answering borrowed questions (about writing)

I’m knee-deep in thesis-land at the moment, which explains fewer posts of late. However I had some time for this. 

The other day I was inspired by Anna Spargo-Ryan’s blog and her Q and A about writing. She has a way with words. But the questions she answered got me thinking. So it meant I had to completely borrow (borrowing is a tribute-y thing) the same questions she answered. They’re not the questions I would ask me, which is why I thought it was worthwhile trying to answer them in my own way…thanks Anna:)



After about 10 years of writing short stories and other stuff now is season of my novella. It’s the creative part of a creative writing thesis I started last year, but I have been thinking about for a while. It’s about a person discovering upon her father’s death that her grandmother was an archaeologist who travelled the world and then settled down to pursue a monomania. So it’s about digging up the past, and death, secrets, history and landscape. All the usual suspects.


It differs because I’m writing it! This novella is literary-historical fiction, but not too post-modern. Mainly I hope the subject matter for this project is a bit ‘little, yellow, different’, to quote um, Wayne’s World. But not so different that I alienate readers. There is a balance when telling a story about a historical person few people have heard of. This aint Wolf Hall, so I need to introduce the character, but not make the story so detail-heavy the plot is bogged down by stuff the reader doesn’t need to know, just because I did the research. And unlike Hilary Mantel I have a strict word limit so scene-setting must be to the point.

Any-who, beyond that I believe the main way every writer distinguishes themselves is through voice. Language is like a palette for a visual artist. There are particular colours and patterns I am drawn to, and ideas I want to explore. Except words are the colours and phrases and themes are the patterns. I’m pretty excited about my particular idea, because it was in part inspired by two real people who were ignored for a long time until recently, so I think it’s on the verge of a zeitgeist (I said zeitgeist, sorry, I really didn’t mean it). As far as I know few people have set novels/stories where mine is set so there is that.


I thought I could maybe write. So I did a TAFE course that included short story writing. Turns out I love short story writing, which I should have remembered since I loved writing them since I was in grade four, when I wrote my first story. Anyway…as everyone says writing short stories doesn’t pay bills but they mostly fit my ability to concentrate, my available time and my need for a sense of accomplishment at actually finishing something. So many times I’ve started novels and just got bogged down or distracted. Getting a story done is a confidence booster, getting a story published even more so. However, it doesn’t mean I’m a prolific writer – some short stories take a while to find their shape and longer again to find publication. As for themes I’m interested in the same things I’ve always been interested in – what if questions, history, mythology, death, hidden things, landscape, language, arcane stuff, building up a scene, but plots and events or triggers percolate for ages. I listen to people, go to the museum, read, dabble in social media, watch the news and out of all that and my own personal experiences something bubbles up. Often it changes. The novella I’m writing has been planned for years, but it’s turning out quite differently to how I imagined. One character who wasn’t really meant to be in the story at all has taken over and the character who was going to be the main focus is more of a background figure. I also raided a novel I started for the much of the setting because it needed a home and I needed a familiar landscape to ground it. Once I had that place I could riff on contrasts and similarities with other locations the story is set.  

No, my novella is not about a crusading medieval cat-knight.

No, my novella is not about a crusading medieval cat-knight. But don’t tempt me.


Not convinced it does really work. But it goes something like: have idea or nice phrase. Write it down. Email it to myself. Or scribble it in my notebook.  Sometime I will develop a paragraph or two when I’m at the noodle place waiting for dinner, or during a break at work. I write in the afternoons and evenings as I get home from work before the rush hour. If I am planning a story I throw everything I can at the page and while that sorts itself out, read for background – if it’s a tiny story I may only read a reference book or check online. This novella is different though because it is longer and because it is part of a thesis. So it’s a story in itself but also a response to some research questions I had. I haven’t written a story in this way before. As part of a thesis there is the exegesis where I defend what I’ve done, it has been a lot of reading – everything from books of letters by explorers to translations of ancient poetry.

Mostly I’m at the laptop in the study at home. I’ll write, work with it, write some more, go away, think about it, edit and write some more. Drafting is constant. For this story I set up a structure first and divided up all the writing into little chapters and then decided who said what and when and where. This planning is a bit of a departure, usually I don’t always know in advance what will happen, but in this case the last little chapterlet was the second thing I wrote after the introduction, which is now not the introduction. It both helps and hinders that since I’m referencing some real stuff as plot markers. Currently I’m working through my supervisor’s edits and questions, which have been very helpful, as have the deadlines because they keep the momentum up. 

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Black Swan of Trespass

The robber of dead men’s dreams

There is a famous Australian literary hoax, called the Ern Malley affair. Two poets invented the Melbourne poet, you guessed it, Ern Malley to dupe literary journal editor Max Harris. It was all about modernism. This is some of Ern’s work, from Durer: Innsbruck, 1495:

I had often cowled in the slumbrous heavy air,
Closed my inanimate lids to find it real,
As I knew it would be, the colourful spires
And painted roofs, the high snows glimpsed at the back,
All reversed in the quiet reflecting waters –
Not knowing then that Durer perceived it too.
Now I find that once more I have shrunk
To an interloper, robber of dead men’s dream,
I had read in books that art is not easy
But no one warned that the mind repeats
In its ignorance the vision of others. I am still
The black swan of trespass on alien waters.

Art is not easy

And you know, it’s pretty good.  You can’t fake poetry. Sure you can fake an identity as McAuley and the other one did, but their combined talent. No. Although no one much remembers their other stuff do they?

The issue of Angry Penguins that resulted in all the fuss

The issue of Angry Penguins that resulted in all the fuss

But all this got me to thinking about all the angst and anger this hoax caused.  And to thinking about trust, cynicism and pretension and posturing. Do we trust any more?

Of late, although where of I know not, sincerity has become uncool. It’s like everyone feels like they’ve been duped once too often by a couple of poets. Now angry cynics online haunt street corners sneering. But they’re sneering at everything indiscriminately: from a kid’s letter to the CSIRO, to mining companies, governments, planes, vaccinations, viral photos of parents doing parenting things, to efforts to stop whaling or shark culls. Nothing is free from attack and many a thing is attacked for the perception that it comes from the political Left or Right. 

It wasn’t always like this was it? Once upon a time poetry was published in good faith that the poet existed. But now?

The point of education is to learn how to think, how to assess evidence, and how to debate points of view. At university it’s not called defending a thesis for nothing. But somehow, the academic effort to assess evidence has been translated in the wider society to a willingness to suspend belief in everything. The first classes I enrolled in taught me logic, and how to make arguments, and see the flaws in the arguments of others. Some take this as mistrust in the motives and truthfulness of everything.

That’s not the case.

I’m not blind to the fact there are liars and con artists in the world. The harder people work to sell me something the more I question the motivation. But I question. Questions are harder than jeering, even when an unexamined life is not worth living, because I wait for an answer. Jeerers don’t care about answers.

The mind repeats

At some point in the last 20 years all information became misinformation. Advice is a conspiracy to get you to spend money or keep you sick or be signed up. Conspiracies are mostly psychological tools of distraction, like how I imagine people worry about chem trails so as to not have to consider giving up a car. Feeling powerless and hard done by, by massive corporations and/or governments excuses you from examining how your own habits may contribute to the smog of the world doesn’t it?

In the end if you see that the poetry is good, enjoy it for the good poetry it is. Maybe it doesn’t matter who the author was or what the motivation for it was. Similarly if you analyse something and see the lie in it, call it out, but measure the hurt you may cause first.

First, do no harm, the doctors once said.

Shrunk to an interloper

I don’t know. Maybe we’re all lost souls crying out in our own personal noche oscuras, railing at things we don’t understand, can’t influence, or don’t exist because it is easier than to accept some kind of individual responsibility for things we might be able to change a little bit. We wouldn’t want to do something different would we, like appreciate a different kind of poetry? Imagine if everyone changes a little bit?

The vision of others

Finally, I try to remember that offence is always personal and mostly meaningless in the wider scheme of things. It might be a famous literary hoax but I can’t feel the offence Max Harris felt as I read the poems, rather I feel for Harris. But me expressing offence at something does little except stoke the fire of my own outraged ego. And I say this knowing next time I’m outraged by some event or political shenanigans.

Yet I say:

Be the poem, not the cynical poets of the world.

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